Progress Quest

[Sly Fly]

After the same thing happened a third time, he was sure he was going to get fired. But a day later, the first payment had arrived. Mitch couldn't believe it. Two hundred gold coins just for sharpening a broadsword, which Brandon returned as a toothpick. Mitch presumed this was just a lucky break, but it happened with every item Brandon worked on.

He knew that Brandon made more money in the first year that most forges did in their lifetime. He knew there was no way the customers should be paying huge sums of money for the work Brandon had done. He knew something very strange was going on. But he knew better than to find out what that something was.

Lastable, and most puzzling of all, he had discovered that virtually no one could see the forge. At first, he thought that it was because the forge had just opened, but then he started to notice things. Things like the postman. For the first two months Brandon hadn't received any mail from his parents - which was most undwarf-like. He went to see the Central Postal office over on the Morpork side only to find nine letters there marked as "undeliverable". It wasn't until one morning shortly after this, when Mitch happened to be late for work and bumped into the postman did he begin to realise what was going on...

"Any post for Nº 32?" asked Mitch.

The postman didn't respond, and instead just stared blankly at Mitch.

"Nº 32?" he asked hopefully, "Brandon's Forge??"

"Er. Yeah. I have as a matter o' fact. Could you tell me where it is son?"

Mitch didn't respond, and instead just stared blankly at the postman.

[Sly Fly]

"It's... right there..." replied Mitch after few seconds hesitation, and pointed to the forge which was just ten metres in front of them.

The postman squinted, his eyes began to water, and for a moment Mitch was sure that steam was going to pour out of his ears. But after a few more seconds his expression turned into one of surprise.

"Good Gods!* I just... never noticed it before..." mumbled the postman, who delivered the letters, and, after glancing over his shoulder now and again, walked off with a puzzled face.

Ever since then, Mitch surreptitiously began to ask people if they had visited the new forge on the c.orner of Celebration Square and Quality Street. Everyone he had talked to looked at him strangely and said that there wasn't any building there, and hadn't been since... since... but none of them could remember exactly when - but not as far back as they could remember anyhow. So Mitch was left with another puzzle. Something else that was very strange.

There are those people in the world that, when finding an old chest in their attic with a warning that whoever should open the chest will be cursed, still proceed to open it anyway. These people are idiots, and often end up a short time afterwards being dead idiots. Mitch was not one of these people. If something strange was going on - and by now he was certain - he saw no reason to start running towards it and waving his arms about attracting its attention...


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*The citizens of Ankh-Morpork don't worship just one God because they know there's way too much wrong with the city for just one God to cope with.

[Sly Fly]

"I'm just popping out to get some food in for the nights work Itchy." shouted Brandon as he grabbed his coat. "Be a good lad and get the cart in eh?"

Mitch dragged the cart into the forge and had a quick look at it. During his first years work at Brandon's he had gathered an astonishing amount of knowledge. Not from Brandon of course, (although Mitch did learn exactly what not to do) but by reading the books given to the dwarf as a present, and which he brought with him from Oredale. Whenever Mitch had some free time at home, he would study the copied texts and marvel at the expertise of the dwarves. Their metallurgy skills were without doubt far more advanced than any other race on the Discworld.

And so, slowly but surely, Mitch began to learn the knowledge that the dwarven Master Smiths had passed down from generation to generation. He had already finished the book covering axel repairs, and after looking at the cart for couple of minutes, he knew that it was on its last legs. The strain of being dragged all the way to the forge had severely damaged the couplings to both axels, and if they weren't fixed as well as the broken axel, the cart would collapse shortly after it began moving again. Mitch closed his eyes and tried not to imagine what would happen when Brandon got his hands on it. Mitch had seen the dwarf in action. The cart didn't stand a chance. He heard the front door slam, and turned around to see Brandon walk in carrying an armful of pies.

"Would you look at the time... It's almost six o'clock! What are you still doing here lad?" Brandon asked.

"Are you sure you don't need me to stay and help out? I'd really like to." Brandon asked hopefully.

"It's just a broken axel Itchy! I'm sure I can handle it myself. Now... you get going before your mum and dad think I'm working you too hard."

"Okay Brandon. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Mitch looked at the cart one last time, knowing that when he arrived tomorrow morning, it would be just about anything except a cart. He reached up to a shelf and took down a book called "An Introduction to Armour Repair by G Hammerfist", put it in his bag, said goodbye to Brandon, and walked out of the forge. Just as he was closing the door behind him, he heard Brandon say...

"Now where did I put my sledgehammer?"

Mitch winced, and blocked the images from his mind.

[Sly Fly]

While Brandon was just starting to repair CMOT Dibbler's only source of (legal) income, Sam Vimes was just starting to get annoyed. He looked out of the window from the newly-refurbished Watch House on Treacle Mine Road, and sighed heavily. He suddenly found himself longing for the good old days... everything was a lot simpler five years ago, he thought.

Back then he wasn't a Commander of the Watch in charge of a hundred or so Watchmen keeping the peace in an entire city. He wasn't married with a baby boy. He wasn't a Duke with all these damn receptions to attend dressed like an idiot. No... five years ago he was just Captain Vimes, a decent copper with a drink problem, in charge of a handful of other half-decent coppers trying their hardest not to get themselves killed out on the beat.

But, he admitted to himself, everything that had happened to him since then was a good thing. His wife, Lady Sybil, was a pillar of strength behind him in everything he did, and his son, Sam, was just... amazing. Lord Vimes smiled in spite of his current mood. Even those damn receptions had their good points. He especially took delight in embarrassing the visiting foreign ambassadors in front of Vetinari... Vimes shook his head, scattering his thoughts, and focused on the report he'd just listened to.

"Okay Cheery," said Vimes turning around, "let's go through what happened one more time." Cheery Littlebottom wasn't the first dwarf the Watch had ever seen, but was definitely the most female. Although dressed rather untraditionally in high-heels, plate-mail-with-bumps, and ear-rings, some dwarves in Ankh-Morpork (presumably the male ones) agreed it would lead to a less confusion and a lot less embarrassing situations.

"Well Sir," started Cheery, "it was late in the afternoon when Corporal Swires was returning from traffic patrol near the Bridge of Cake, when he spotted what looked like a noggin in Magic Alley."

"And a 'noggin' is..."

"It's our codename for an unconscious body sir*." answered Cheery.

"I see. Carry on Cheery."

"Sir. Corporal Swires decided it was best to land and establish the state of the noggin. When he inspected the body, sir, he found that the person was in fact, dead, and also that the body was warm, indicating that the death happened within the last hour. He couldn't see any signs of struggle or wounds to indicate a murder. Corporal Swires then left the scene and flew directly here to request that forensics take a look."


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*Drugs and tranquilisers had not yet made their way to the Discworld, but two pints of 'Old Tom's Noggin-Buster' had much the same effect, but without being addictive or having withdrawal symptom **.

**This was because two pints of Noggin-Buster either killed the imbiber, or knocked him out cold for three days, whereupon the person would wake up to find they couldn't remember ever drinking such a drink, or what happened the past week.

[Sly Fly]

"Hmm. Good." Vimes was pleased. Buggy was the Watch's first and so far only gnome recruit, who proved invaluable on more than a few occasions. Due to his very small size, he was also the only Watchman to travel by bird. He could carry equipment to other parts of the city very quickly by Heron, but preferred a Sparrowhawk for traffic patrol. They were better at hovering.

"He did exactly as he should have done." nodded Vimes.

"Yes sir. Being head of forensics, I went myself and took special Constable Igor with me as well. It took us fifteen minutes to reach the scene, and that's where we ran into the... er..."

"Reporter..." finished Vimes.

"Um... yes sir" said Cheery quietly.

Of all the changes that had happened over the past five years, reporters were one of the top three things Vimes would be glad to be rid of. They annoyed him. Their questions annoyed him. Their persistence annoyed him. Their 'Freedom of Speech' crap annoyed him. Damn reporters. But what annoyed him most of all was their knack of getting to a crime scene before the Watch did. It happened far too often to be a coincidence, and he was beginning to think that they were they ones committing the bloody crimes they got there that fast. Vimes sighed and looked at Cheery.

"It's not your fault they got there first Cheery. Damn reporters..." Vimes repeated.

"Yes sir. We don't like the Hack's any more than you do."

"Hack's?" asked Vimes.

"Er.. because we wouldn't mind hacking them to bits, sir." replied Cheery innocently.

"Indeed." If they weren't so irritating he would have considered employing them for the Watch. As it was, he was considering locking them all up.

"Who was it this time Cheery?" Vimes asked. "Creers? Worde? Plewart?"

"I've never seen this one before sir, but his name is Frank Gothard, and he's awfully large."

"Frank eh? Can't say I've heard of him myself. Is that large as in ten-course-dinner-wizard-large, or Sergeant Detritus-large?" asked Vimes.

"As in almost-as-large-as-Sergeant Detritus-large large sir" replied Cheery.

"Really?" Vimes was surprised. Detritus was a troll, and a rather big one at that. He carried a siege bow that three men couldn't lift, which he had converted to fire almost fifty arrows at once. Vimes had ordered him never to shoot people with it, because there wouldn't be any 'people' left afterwards.

"In that case I suppose the crime scene was destroyed then."

"Well, that's the odd thing sir." replied Cheery, "It was completely undisturbed. The reporter was very careful and didn't touch the body in any way. Even the man's wallet was in his pocket - which still had money in it."

Vimes was now aghast. Nobody in Ankh-Morpork, with the exception of the Guild of Thieves and the Watch members (with the exception of Nobby) would pass by a body without stripping it of valuables.

[Sly Fly]

"An honest man in Ankh-Morpork? Now that really is breaking news. So did you manage to find out anything?" asked the Commander.

"Well, after the reporter left we examined the body and found no marks or wounds of any sort. So we don't think he was murdered, but we're not sure what killed him. Unless Igor can carry out an autopsy."

"I see. We'll need permission from the next of kin for Igor to do that. If the man has a next of kin of course. Any identification inside the wallet?"

"Yes sir." replied the dwarf. "His name, address and family details were printed on a card. Captain Carrot has already gone to see the family and to break the news."

"That's good of him." said Vimes. One of the very few advantages of being Commander of the Watch was that he didn't have to tell a husband, wife or young child that they will never see a loved one again. Vimes had been a copper for more than thirty years now, but there were some parts of the job that you could never get used to. It was widely recognized that Carrot was good at this particular duty though, (if it is indeed possible to be good at such a thing) and the Captain had taken it upon himself to act as 'Public Relations Officer' for which everyone else in the Watch was very grateful.

"Okay." said Vimes, clearing his throat and effectively wrapping up the report. "Leave it a few days and then go and see the family. Ask them - tactfully - if it would be permissible to carry out an examination on the body to determine the cause of death. For their peace of mind and whatnot. But do not take Igor with you. Apparently last time he also asked the bereaved family if it would be okay for him to keep the deceased's eyes because he'd misplaced his spare pair*.

"Will do. And with regard to the reporter...?"

"Ah yes. Give his name to the... uh... 'Specials' would you."

"Yes sir." said Cheery.

"Corporal Littlebottom," said Vimes in a stern voice with a hint of sarcasm, "that wouldn't happen to be a smile on your face now would it?"

"Not at all sir." replied Cheery, with a huge smile on her face.

"Good. The Specials have been working on this case for weeks now, and I expect them to get to the bottom of this very soon." said Vimes, also, strangely, with a huge grin on his face. "Tell them that this 'Frank' fellow is another hack that somehow arrived at the crime scene before the watch did."

"And where would I be able to find the Specials at this very moment sir?" asked Cheery on the verge of giggling.

"Well... I expect that right now Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs will be in the middle of a stakeout somewhere... try the 'All-you-can-eat Pie and Mash shop' near Scooner Avenue."

Cheery excused herself with one hand over her mouth, and ran laughing from Vimes' office.


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*Igor used to be a butler, but is now the Watch's surgeon. An extensive Igor family stretches all over the Discworld, and every one of them recycles any bodyparts and organs that are in decent condition. It is often the case that, for Christmas, a young child will receive a hand-me-down organ, or, if they are very lucky, a spare arm**

**Some assembly required¶

¶But does come complete with the traditional Igor joke : "Can someone give me a hand with this..."

[Twigler]

Frank ran through the streets to the crime scene. Despite it being busy he had no problem with people getting in the way. Even ox carts* somehow managed to get out of his way before he reached them. Five minutes later he arrived in Magic Alley to find a small crowd around a prone figure.
Frank walked up to the crowd, pulling out his notepad and pencil and addressed one of the figures bending over the corpse: "Excuse me sir, you are tampering with a crime scene. Please put his wallet back and leave the corpse alone."

Butterfingers McNally wasn't really what people consider a pickpocket. In fact he never managed to pick a pocket of anyone who wasn't dead without getting caught**. He still managed to survive, mostly by using a heavy club as a "backup device". This week had not been good and he was not about to take nonsense from some goody-two-shoes.
"Bugger off!" the pickpocket responded without looking up and took out his club. A silence fell over the crowd and he suddenly felt totally alone in the middle of a widening circle. Noticing all the symptoms of impending violence, he swallowed hard and looked up.
"Oh, this wallet you mean. I'll just put that back then, shall I? Just checking if everything was still in it, sir!"
Butterfingers threw the wallet to Frank and took a swing with the club planning to take him out by surprise. Frank caught the wallet, grabbed the club and lifted Butterfingers of his feet.
"Now, that's not a very nice thing to do. This is not very civilized behaviour at all!" Frank spoke in a hurt voice.
"!... "
Frank took a look at the petrified thief dangling from his arm, swung him around a couple of times and flung him away. A dull, squishy thud ended the screaming thief's flight as he landed onto the Ankh***.
"Now don't do that again." Frank shouted at the flying thief.

He had a look at the wallet and took down the name and address of the victim before putting it back in the jacket of the corpse while looking at the body: "Strange, no signs of violence or poison. It's still warm as well."
He straightened up: "Frank Gothard, the Truth. Did anyone see what happened here?"

The crowd shuffled its feet, normally quite happy to make up a story or offer opinions to get mentioned in the papers, none of them was too keen to talk to a reporter who just catapulted someone 50 feet through the air.
Eventually, as is usual in these matters, the urge to get mentioned in the paper did win out over any thoughts for personal safety and an old lady shuffled forward:
“Marla Glotbotter, 49" she glared at the sniggering people behind her, "of 34 Small Scone Street. No that’s scone with a C. I saw the young man, he walked through the alley and then four black-clad dwarvesses jumped out and cut him to bits!”

That broke the ice, and a second later Frank was surrounded by people giving them their names and opinions. “That weren’t dwarfs, it was them assassassins!” “Them dwarves weren’t dwarves, them’s gnomes. I’ve read about them gninja clangs on the Counterweight Continent.” “It was the watch! I always said you can’t trust them!” “It was nobody; he just walked into the street and fell over.” “Dwarfses!” “Gninjas!” “Arsassins!” “Watch!”

“Shut up!”

Frank’s voice thundered over the crowd who all suddenly remembered who they were crowding around.
“You! Look at the body. There are no wounds; how can he have been cut down?!” Frank glared down at the old lady. Frank turned to the rest of the crowd (to the relief of the old lady****): “And Gninjas? They’ve never been away from the Counterweight continent. It’s against their principles!† Assassins work alone, dwarves would have left axe marks and the watch doesn’t just kill people!”
A voice from the back of the crowd called out: “No they just rob them. Hur, hur… hur…” and suddenly found out that the comfortable backs of the people in front of him were all gone and that now he was staring an angry barbarian in the face. “Ehm, sorry?”

“If the comic is done, I would like to speak to the young lady who said he just dropped dead. The rest of you can go now.”

A big sigh of relief went up from the crowd and a tall young woman found herself alone with the tall barbarian. “So did you see what he did before he dropped dead, miss...?”
“No name please. I saw him talking to another man, a merchant with a cart. They talked, the dead man pointed him towards that alley, the merchant sold him something and walked off. The dead man ate whatever he bought, walked a few steps and then fell down.”
Frank frowned: “That must have taken at least five minutes, why were you watching this all the time?”
“Lets just say that I have a sixth sense when it comes to death. I had a feeling something would happen. Now if that is all, I have matters to attend to. Good day to you sir.”

Frank tipped his helmet and watched incredulously as the woman walk away. No fear! He had seen no fear in her eyes. Everyone he dealt with so far was scared of him. He could see it and even smell it in some cases. It made him feel terrible, but she was the first who just dealt with him like she would with anyone else. And then the remarks she made about death. This woman must know more. Frank folded his notepad away and made up his mind to follow her.

“Just a moment there, mister. We would like to ask you a few questions.” two watchmen walked up to the scene.
Cheery looked up at the barbarian and wondered if maybe letting this witness walk away would have been a wiser choice. He looked annoyed at them stopping him. She gathered herself and addressed him: "So, what happened here then please?”
“Frank Gothard, The Truth. Don’t know maam, I arrived here after the crime.”
“Ah a hack… journalist! Thank the gods!” relief streamed off Cheery like fat of one of Sam Harga’s “Super Fry-ups”. “I mean fine, fine. Good man. Thanks for your help and all that.”
Frank stared at the watchdwarf.
"Aren't you supposed to ask me a bit more? I did read the Adventures of
Shylock Gnomes, the famous Ankh Morporkian detective and that's not how it is done there."
"What? Erhm, so any idea what happened then?"
"No!"
"Fine, move along then." Cheery felt like someone put her on a stage and forgot to give her her lines.
"No, no, no, see I'm the reporter type that wants to follow his own lead and keep the coppers in the dark."
Cheery looked at Igor who just shrugged (although you never knew exactly what expression Igor was trying to achieve).
"So you do know something?" she asked.
"Not very threatening now is it? I mean how is that going to convince me?" Frank looked disappointed.
Cheery hazarded a guess: "Tell me everything or... I have you locked up?"
Frank beamed: "Allright then copper, you win. Apparently he just ate something and then dropped dead. The guy who sold him the thing he ate went off that way."
Still feeling like she wasn't entirely sure what exactly was happening here, Cheery took down the info. She was wondering if he still held something back but decided to follow the path that would keep her sanity intact: "That's all, thank you sir."
Frank ran off in the direction that the woman disappeared in.
"That fellow could do with a new brain if you ask me" Igor said.



*An ox cart is the Ankh Morpork equivalent of an unloading heavy lorry in a medieval city centre; it is capable of movement in principle but it never does when you're behind it.

**In one classic case a patient who had been in a coma for 15 years woke up just to grab his hand, say: "Oi, that's me wallet!" and fall back into a coma again (thanks to Butterfinger's backup device).

*** If it wasn't for the Ankh, Butterfingers would have drowned since he couldn't swim. Now he was just knocked out by the impact, had his pockets picked when the river eventually oozed him to the side. His sanity gone, he ran as far away as he could from any rivers he encountered and ended up as a hermit in the great Neff desert where a local desert tribe worshipped him as a prophet. Sadly for Butterfingers this meant that once every month they visited him and took all his possessions claiming they were holy relics.

**** Who ran off at an amazing speed even for a *koff* 49 year old, but was really glad that she was actually old enough to wear diapers again.

† The principle being that no one outside the Counterweight Continent had enough gold to afford their fees.
_________________

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[Sly Fly]

Vimes would have been somewhat surprised to find out that Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs were, in fact, hard at work by spying on one of the reporters who had arrived at several crime scenes before the Watch did. Vimes would have been less surprised, however, to discover that they were spying from a seated position within the Mended Drum...

"Fwarge?" asked Nobby with a mouthful of dumpling stew, "We're at work right now, yeah?"

"Yes Nobby." replied Sergeant Colon.

"Even though we've spent the whole day in the pub?"

"Yes Nobby."

"Even though we've had loads of beer?"

"Yes Nobby."

"And four helpings of stew?"

"Yes Nobby."

"And we're still at work?"

"Yes Nobby." Fred could tell there was an idea somewhere within the Corporal's head that was desperately trying to find the entrance to the brain department.

"Only..." and there was a brief pause while he worked out the wording, "spending all day in the Mended Drum drinking beer and eating stew doesn't seem like, well, proper police work, Sarge. Notthatimcomplainingofcourse" he added quickly.

Fred Colon stopped looking out of the window and turned around. "I've explained what we're doing here Nobby. What we are doing... is keeping a syrup-ticious eye on Miss Hollow."

"I understand that Sarge, but she's been doing the same thing all day long. We can't really arrest her for buying some pies from Mrs Miggin's Pie Shop can we?"

Fred Colon sighed and looked at the Corporal. Only Vimes had been in service longer then Nobby, and Fred had been in the Watch longer than anyone else. He found that he and Nobby shared a common goal of staying alive, which had worked very well so far - mainly because they tried to be as far away from danger as possible. Fred was a happily married man to a wonderful wife. Probably. Because he never really saw her that much. When he was with the old Night Watch, he got home just as she was leaving work, and when she returned, it was time for him to start his shift. Strangely, now that Fred worked for the City Watch during the day, his wife had started a night shift. Even more strange was the fact that he had four children...

[Sly Fly]

Nobby, on the other hand, still lived with his mum near the Sonky shop on Clay Lane. He hadn't so much graduated from the school of hard knocks, but rather didn't bother turning up to any of the lessons. Not that it mattered - Nobby rarely had to run from any trouble he was never there in the first place. Unlike Fred and most of the other Watch people, he was unmarried. This was partly due to the fact noone in Ankh-Morpork wanted to get close enough to find out if he was actually male or female. It was also partly due to Nobby's hygiene problem - the problem being he had no hygiene to speak of in the first place. Even the flies refused to go near him for fear of catching something.

"She's been to that same pie shop four times in just the last six hours." replied Fred. "Bit suspicious if you ask me Nobby."

"'praps she's just very hungry." replied Nobby. "Or she really likes pies."

"Could be Corporal, could be, but the odd thing is that... hang on... here she comes again..."

Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs both stared out of the window and watched as Eva Hollow walked along Filigree Street, stopped outside Mrs Miggin's Pie Shop, and bought another pie. They then saw her walk off and unwrap the pie, put the wrapping paper in her pocket, and throw the pie over a nearby fence. When she had disappeared from view, the two Watchmen turned to face each other.

"Well..." said Colon, taking a sip of beer, "you know what this means!"

"Er... we can arrest here for littering Sarge?"

"No Nobby, it means that..."

"...she's illegally feeding pidgeons?"

"NO Nobby. It means that something strange is going on here. Nobody buys a pie and then immediately throws it away."

"You never bought one of Dibbler's pies then Sarge?" asked Nobby

Fred thought for a brief second. "Apart from any of Dibbler's products, nobody in Ankh-Morpork would pay good money for food and then throw it away a few seconds later"

"'sright." said Nobby. "If they don't like 'em they can always sell 'em to Dibbler on the cheap."

"Yes Corporal, but the point I am trying to make, is how many people would throw away the pie and then keep the wrapping paper?"

Nobby sat there silent for a while, occasionally taking a sip of beer. "I think there's something strange going on Sarge." he said finally.

"'sactly Nobby. Now, let's go and report this to Vimes."

"Right now Fred? I've just ordered us another beer! An' Miss Hollow might come back for another pie. We wouldn't want to miss her buying another pie."

"Good point Corporal." replied Colon. "We'll have another beer in case she doubles back and then we'll go to see the Commander"

"Yes Sarge. Tough work with this survey-lengths." Nobby said as two fresh pints arrived.

"It's surveillance Corporal, but we can manage. After all, we are The Specials."

Nobby nodded proudly, and they both resumed staring out of the window.

[Sly Fly]

Just a minute or two before a bell somewhere in the distance was going to announce it was one o'clock in the morning, a shadow detached itself from the place it had been patiently waiting, and moved slowly toward the edge of the roof. This movement startled some birds that had settled themselves on what they thought had been a statue, but before they could even think about flying off, a blade appeared from nowhere and deftly sliced them in half. They could have made some noise, Tan Creed thought to himself. He had been on the rooftop of the Jesters Guild for nearly eight hours now, just waiting for his target to show, and at last, he had appeared. Tan had chosen this building for his vantage point as it gave an excellent view of the street below, but also because the security and traps on the roof of the Guild were laughable*

Tan was one of the best assassins in Ankh-Morpork, and it wasn't usual for him to be hired to eliminate... civilians. But he had been told that this was a special case, attached with a very handsome 50,000 dollar payout. No less than seven other assassins had been contracted to kill this person over the past several months. All of them had failed. All of them had been found dead. Tan had absolutely no idea how this subject managed to dispatch seven highly trained killers, but he had no intention on becoming the eighth.

He wasn't sure where his target had appeared from, but Tan watched as he idly strolled down the street. Perfect - he would walk right past the Jesters Guild. The assassin withdrew a crossbow strapped to his back, and took out a small pouch of bolts from within his black cloak. He selected a dart which was tipped with a poison of his own design, and loaded it in the bow with a barely audible *click*. He crouched by the edge of the roof and waited for his prey to arrive.

Tan noted the strength of the wind and its direction. He calculated the speed of the individual and thus how much he would have to lead the target with his shot. He even took into account the humidity of the air. He would leave nothing to chance.

The target came into view.

Tan Creed aimed.

He fired.


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*This was actually true. Whereas other Guild buildings had traps which inflicted pain, injured, maimed or killed, the Jesters Guild installed devices which, when triggered, would deploy jokes, gags and puns to make the intruder laugh so hard he would eventually pass out and fall off the roof.

[Sly Fly]

The poison-tipped dart left the crossbow and flew at high speed towards the intended victim, heading straight for his heart. The execution of the ambush was flawless - there were no Watchmen in the vicinity, there was no noise to alert anyone nearby, and the accuracy of the shot was breathtaking.

Except it missed.

Or rather, the target was no longer where he should have been, having bent down to pick something up from the road. The assassin watched with irritation as the crossbow bolt harmlessly struck the cobblestones. Then he watched with surprise as it rebounded off the road, hit a window on the building opposite, and headed straight back in his direction. With lightning reflexes, he rolled aside just in time to avoid the oncoming dart, and in one fluid motion came to his feet. Immediately he checked himself for a wound where the dart may have grazed him, but thankfully there wasn't any...

*TING*

Tan Creed turned around just in time to see the poisoned-tipped dart go *thunk* into his chest, having been deflected off a weather-vein behind him. He looked at the bolt, sticking out of his body, still not really believing what had just happened. The poison, Tan knew, worked incredibly quickly, and he carried no antidote.

"Well... " croaked the assassin, already drawing his final breath, "that... was... a bit..."

UNLUCKY? said a voice behind him.

With a sudden newfound strength, Tan Creed span round and in under four seconds sent thirty seven throwing knives towards the person who had crept up behind him. The black-robed figure moved like a blur, and amazed the assassin by catching the knives in just his free hand. The other hand, Tan now saw, was holding a rather large scythe. Together with the fact that his own hands were glowing a strange blue colour, Tan came to the conclusion he was facing He-Who-Cannot-Be-Inhumed. He stood up and brushed some imaginary dust off his cloak, and drew upon what dignity he thought he had left.

"I only count thirty six knives in your hand. You missed one."

FWEEK! said the Death of Rats, and appeared at the Grim Reapers shoulder with a knife in its teeth.

IT'S A DOUBLE-ACT said Death.

"Ah" replied the assassin, "Sorry about the knives. I'm a bit confused you see. It's just that I've never failed a contract before."

NEITHER HAVE I

-----

On the street below, unaware of any of the events that had just transpired around him, a person straightened up to have a look at what he'd just found on the pavement.

"Wow. A half-dollar coin! Today must be my lucky day!"

Brandon Longbeardpocketed the coin, started humming a merry tune, and continued the walk to his house.

[Sly Fly]

...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................Chapter Two.

It was five o'clock in the morning when Mitch finally awoke after having had a sleepless night. It was always like this when they received new work. His dreams had been haunted by Brandon melting precious heirlooms, breaking delicate objects, or mutilating prizewinning racehorses. He got out of bed and washed and dressed quietly, careful not to awake his parents. He then crept downstairs to eat a hurried breakfast, and left the house before six.

During the ten minute walk it took to get to work, he thought of what might await him when he arrived at the forge. Whatever it was, he had to take it to Dibbler and ask for some money. The thoughts repeated themselves in his head. He'd have to get money... out of Dibbler... and with a cart that that had probably been mangled beyond all recognition.

Brandon's run of receiving huge sums of money for his work would surely come now to an abrupt end.

It was still quite dark at this time in the morning, and as he turned into Quality Street, he could see that the lights were already on in the forge. As Mitch expected, Brandon had stayed up the whole night working on Dibbler's item. Whatever else could be said about the dwarf, he definitely tried his hardest. Every time. Mitch walked up to the door, and after taking a deep breath, stepped into the forge.

The first thing he noticed was Brandon - asleep in one of the comfy chairs near the still-warm kiln. Mitch looked around, but couldn't see the food trolley anywhere. He looked in the office, in the storeroom, in the garage, and even in the toilet, but it was nowhere to be found. He was beginning to think Brandon may have melted it down. Time was now getting on, and he'd have to leave soon in order to meet Dibbler in the Town Square. Mitch went over to the sleeping dwarf and gently shook him awake.

[Sly Fly]

"Whassat? Dontwantnone! Hmm? Oh, sorry. Good morning Mitch. I was just taking a rest and I guess I must have fallen asleep." mumbled Brandon.

"Did you manage to finish Dibbler's work last night?" Mitch asked.

"Eh?" said Brandon, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes. "Of course my lad. Finished a bit later than I expected, as I broke a chisel and had to pop home quickly and get another one, but I guess I must have stopped around four in the morning."

Chisel? What the hell was he doing with a chisel? Mitch decided that it was better not to ask. "Great boss. But where is it? I've looked everywhere and I can't..."

"It's out the back, lad. Gave it a bit of a test run just to make sure it worked properly." replied the dwarf.

Mitch was shocked, not only did it seem to be in one piece, but it was actually moving as well? Not being able to believe this for himself, he walked out into the yard at the back of the forge to look at it with his own eyes.

The cart stood near the alleyway door at the back fence, and it looked... great!.The wheels had been replaced, the metal casing had all been polished, and, after Mitch gave it a small push, the cart seemed to move without any trouble whatsoever. He was so thrilled he was smiling. He was also angry with himself for not having more faith in Brandon, but after so many disasters beforehand, he'd simply expected another.

The dwarf appeared at the door to the forge and yawned loudly. "Better get going Itchy. It's ten past six already, and it'll take you ten minutes to get to the Town Square."

"I'm ready to leave now Brandon. And great work on the cart!"

"It was just a broken axel, lad." replied the forger, shaking his head in amazement. "I'm off home to get some rest - I'll be back around midday. Oh... and Itchy... please try and come back with the money this time eh?"

"You got it boss. See you later on Brandon."

The dwarf locked up the forge and went home for some decent sleep, while Mitch pushed the cart out the door in the fence, and headed off to meet Dibbler. It was the most perfect start to a working day, Mitch thought.

That had all changed in just five minutes.

The cart had started to make a small squeaking noise, which Mitch didn't pay much attention to. But when it became a *grind* he thought he had better take a look. When he got on his hands and knees to check the underneath, he was alarmed to find that Brandon hadn't replaced the couplings...

[Sly Fly]

Great. Just... great. He'd be lucky if he made it to the end of the street before the whole thing collapsed on him. There was no point in going back to the forge, he thought, as Brandon was no longer there, and Mitch didn't have neither the time nor the materials to fix the problem himself. So, reluctantly, he started off again, taking it very easy this time. He was only one street away from the square when the grinding was accompanied by a clanking.

By now, Mitch was pushing the cart with extreme care, going as slowly as he could without ending up being late. He breathed a silent sigh of relief when he turned the last co.rner and entered the Town Square. Mitch inched his way over to one of the pillars near the middle of the square, and came to a rest. He couldn't see Dibbler anywhere, and was glad he hadn't been there to hear the awful noise the food trolley was now making. There would be no way that Dibbler would accept the cart when it was in this condition. The only chance Mitch had was if Dibbler handed over the money before he moved his new squeaky-grindy-clanky machine. He didn't like to deceive customers, but he was determined that this time he would return to the forge with the payment.

"Morning"

Mitch jumped at the voice, and looked around to find Dibbler behind him, already inspecting the cart. "Er... hello. Um... looks really nice doesn't it?"

"Yeah... yeah... Not bad actually. Almost as good as new in fact. He's done a good job that dwarf. See he's fixed the axel and polished the whole thing. Nice... nice..."

"Uh-huh." Mitch replied. He watched Dibbler for a couple of minutes as he inspected the work, but so far he hadn't thought to test out its movement capability. But then his hands came to rest on the steering bar used to push the cart. Mitch started to pray to whatever Gods may be listening. Don't. Move. It. Please. Please don't push it. Please, please, please, please, ple...

"Don't suppose you'd accept a couple of meat pies as payment would you?" said Dibbler with innocent smile. "And that's cutting me own throat."

"Cant really do that sir." stuttered Mitch.

Dibbler sighed over-dramatically. "It's a shame you know, but I'd planned to give those two copper pieces to the orphans home. Such a shame. I suppose they won't be able to afford those new blankets after all..."

Mitch didn't respond.

"And the other copper piece I was gonna give to little Bobby Perkin, who's collecting money for that journey to Klatch for his toe-saving operation..."

Mitch didn't respond.

"Er... oh yeah... silly me, and the last copper piece I was going to give to... um... me mum. Because... she... er... needs it."

Mitch didn't respond. Dibbler was sweating now, thinking that he was being given the 'silent treatment' but in fact the young boy was actually in shock. While Dibbler had been talking, Mitch had noticed that one of the wheels on the cart had started to buckle. It was on the verge of snapping completely. Mitch was on the verge of running.

[Sly Fly]

Unable to stand the silence any longer, Dibbler put down the bag he was carrying, took four copper pieces from his pocket, and thrust it into Mitch's hand.

"THERE! I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY NOW! STEALING FROM THE POOR YOU ARE! THAT THERE IS A MONTH'S EARNINGS FOR ME THAT IS! lied Dibbler at the top of his voice.

Actually receiving the money - for the first time ever no less - snapped Mitch out of the shock he was in, and he at last managed to tear his eyes away from the cart to look at the coins in his hand. "Wow! Thanks." he said trying to keep his voice stready, and then added quickly, "I better be going now. Lots to do. Bye.", whereupon Mitch turned around, wiped the sweat from his brow, and started to walk off.

"I dunno..." muttered Dibbler, "trying your hardest to make your way in the big city, and all you..."

*SQUEAK* .......................... *GRIND* ............................ *CLANG*

Mitch stopped dead in his tracks, and Dibbler had stopped pushing the food cart. Both men turned to face each other, and Mitch realized too late that he should have feigned a surprised look or at least be puzzled like Dibbler. When the businessman tentatively pushed the cart forward a second time, the same noises were heard once again.

Mitch felt inclined to speak. "It's..."

But at that exact moment, the whole thing fell to the floor - both axles snapping in half having been weakened by the damaged couplings. Its collapse sent all four wheels flying off in different directions, and the whole cart wobbled and groaned ominously. Once the noise had eventually died away, Mitch shut his gaping mouth, and tried to offer an explanation.

"I mean it's..."

*CLANG* - one of the food trays had fallen off

"I mean I'm sure it's..."

*POINGGG* - went the cart as two of the panels fell to the ground

"...just a..."

*BANG* - the serving panel came loose and clattered against one of the store cupboards

"...minor problem..."

*TINKLE* - the food trolley went, as a heating tray disintegrated

"...that can..."

*THWUMP* - the steering bar fell to the floor, rendering a completely unmovable trolley even more unmovable

"...be easily..."

*TWANG* FWUP FWUP FWUP FWUP FWUP FWUP FWUP - as another panel flew off into the air

"...fixed." finished Mitch.